PS 3545 
.R6 F6 
1911 
Copy 1 







A FOOL ON A ROOF 

ET IN ARCADIA EGO 



JEAN WRIGHT 



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Class "PSb 
Book & C ^ r r 



CoRyrightN _\^JXV 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A Fool on a Roof 

Et in Arcadia Ego 
AND OTHER POEMS 



JEAN WRIGHT 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
I9II 



Copyright 1910 by Richard G. Badger. 



All Rights Reserved 






r 



For courteous permission to reprint some of the 
poems in this volume the author wishes to thank 
the editors of Harper s Magazine, The Smart Set, 
Lippincott's Magazine, Puck, Judge, The Rail- 
road Mans Magazine, and Munsey. 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



CCU278722 



To 

All My Fellow Fools 

But 

Particularly To Those JVho, By Force of 

Circumstance, Dwell in Philistia. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A Fool on a Roof 7 

The Switching Engine 1 3 

The Gamblers 14 

The Desert 15 

A Song 18 

The Unquiet Heart 19 

' 'Tis Better to have Loved and Lost" 20 

To the Mocking Bird 21 

The Locust Bloom 22 

One Night 23 

A Serenade 24 

June Song 25 

A Madrigal for Peggy 26 

To My Campaspe 27 

To My Heart's Love 28 

Defection 29 

Narcissus 30 

A-Maying 31 

The Epicurean 32 

The Raindrop Prelude 33 

April's Fair False Smile 34 

From Heine 34 

The Lotos Bloom 35 

Peggy's Hair 36 

Thy Dark Eyes 37 



PAGE 

Triolet 37 

Love's Suicide 38 

An Errand of Mercy 39 

A Song 41 

Rondeau 42 

A Song of the Moor 43 

Bliss 44 

My Lady's Miniature 45 

Love Blows as the Wind Blows 46 

Your Hand in Mine 47 

For You are Not Here 48 

Mid-summer 49 

The Wizard Wind 50 

When Phillada Was Flouted 51 

From Heine 5 2 

Have a Care, My Lady 53 

Rondeau 54 

5:30 A. M 55 

Triolet 56 



A FOOL ON A ROOF 
Et in Arcadia Ego 

In a cave dug out of the side of a cliff, 

— The Agent calls it a flat; 
He thinks he knows, so I pay my rent, 

And let it go at that — 

I dwell in peace and fair content, 

Nor mind the lack of air; 
For the Garden of the Gods is mine 

By climbing just one more stair. 

My cave is snug and warm and cheap, 
And rich with the loot of years; 

But the key of the Yale lock lets me out 
Too often, Margot fears. 

But what can I do, when the house top calls 
With a voice that I must obey. 

It's no use to try — let the work go hang — 
I'll do it another day! 



Up on the house top, under the sun, 
— Ah, but it's good to be here — 

The wind off the river's a wee bit sharp, 
But I fancy the sad old year 

Like some poor woman, young at heart, 

And use to being fair, 
Forgets her age and thinks of spring; 

For spring is in the air. 



Yet, the north wind is a stinging wind, 

And the fog looms mistily; 
But the Palisades are friends of mine 

And stand heart-high to me. 

And the old church tower, so close at hand, 
Holds a clanging and busy bell 

That warns my heedless ears of the hours, 
— But it says that I waste 'em well. 



What's that ? As I live it's a strolling band 

In the well they call a court; 
And its blatant brass 'gainst the sheer brick walls, 

If one wanted to work, would thwart 

One's best intentions — look — over there — 

That red thing swinging high! 
Margot says it's a cheap old rug, 

But I know it's Tyrian dye. 

That dancing clothes line, hung with things 
That belong to the cave it's above — 

I held my breath when I saw it stretched, 
For Young Love helped Young Love. 



Listen — that man in the nearby flat — 
He fiddles his hours away — 

I've never seen him — of course he's fat- 
But all that I have to say 



Is, whenever he draws his loosened bow 

Across the taut G string, 
It thrills me down to my very boots 

And the strings of my heart all wring. 

Alack a day, what a day it is! 

But I must get to work; 
For all my brains are held in pawn, 

And a pawn he mustn't shirk. 



The sullen clouds are hanging down 
Right over the town, and I think 

That the sleet and snow have made my roof 
As slick as a skating rink. 

And I am a fool to venture up 

Unless on business bent; 
To hang the clothes, or latch the door, 

— And it's almost time for the rent. 

But the fog on the river is thick, Margot, 
And the fog in my brain is as bad. 

The sky and my heart are both like lead, 
And the old world seems so sad. 

So — it's me for the house top — 

Hey old Wind — my, it's a bitter day — 

But the sullen clouds are scudding fast, 
And the fog is blowing away. 



I fancy my fiddler stayed in bed, 

Perhaps he sent for some beer. 
Maybe he had it, and bread and cheese, 

— He'll starve some day, I fear. 

Look — down the street, in his rough old coat 
Along comes my whistling man; 

"Hello, here's a dime!" It'll go for a drink- 
But it's hey for the Pipes o' Pan! 



It's Sunday morning, and well-clad folk 

Are going to church over there; 
Perhaps I'm a Pagan, up on my roof 

Breathing God's own fresh air. 

But the choir boys are singing some wonderful thing 

That floats straight up to the sky; 
It's a good old hymn, like the angels sing; 

And we listen, the angels and I. 

Margot has donned her last year's gown, 

And let her old veil float, 
To hide the rent that's under the chin, 

— But I have no Sunday coat. 

She says it's a flimsy poor excuse, 

That I want to stay at home; 
Well, Sunday mornings are good up here, 

And it's here that I generally come. 



10 



My cave is snug and sweet — but sweet — 
And the lamps are burning bright, 

And Margot says I'll catch my death 
If I go on the roof, to-night. 

But I say that I want to see my star; 

For something has gone wrong 
In the way that I hitched my wagon on, 

And I promise I wont stay long. 

So — the Yale lock clicks, and I sneak up stairs 

As quiet as can be. 
I know I'm a fool, but what can I do 

When the house top's calling me ? 



Whew! but the wind is a bitter wind — 

Old Wind, you don't play fair 
To hit a man when he's off his guard, 

And decidedly up in the air. 

But I'm a king, on my own house top, 

And the moon is all my own ; 
There's never a soul in sight to-night 

And it's good to be alone. 

Just a minute more — till the old bell clangs — 

For my fiddler's mad to-night; 
And my wagon runs on rubber tires 

And it's hitched to my star all right. 



II 



Ah, it's good to be on the house top, 
Way up from the tired town, 

But Margot's hair is gold in the light, 
And I think I'll be going down. 



We have a gorgeous bunch of flowers, 

— The flowers of yesterday — 
They cost a beautiful great big dime, 

But Margot likes things gay. 

And Margot's gown is old — but old — 
She says 'twas made from a scrap; 

But it matches her eyes — her deep blue eyes — 
So I don't care a rap. 

Neither does she, for the matter of that — 

It's as good as new, don't I see? 
Then she laughs and sticks a rose in her hair, 

And the world looks good to me. 

So — the house top calls, and it bids me come 

To the night and the biting air; 
But my cave is warm and sweet — but sweet — 

And Margot calls me there. 



12 



THE SWITCHING-ENGINE 

Oh, I'm just a switching-engine, in a grimy, smoky 

yard. 
I do my work because I must — sometimes it's 
blooming hard 
Just to push a load of empties up a thousand feet 

or so, 
And then to pull 'em back again, and never let 
'em go. 

Oh, I'm rusty and I'm dirty, and they waste no 

time on me, 
But they couldn't do without me — just let 'em try 
and see. 
They may send that dandy flier half across the 

world and back: 
But I guess they couldn't do it I didn't clear 
the track. 

And when they're getting ready, he looks uncom- 
mon proud: 
It seems to me he blows his steam unnecessary loud, 
And flaunts his bally brasses, as much as if to say, 
"Old chap — I'm really sorry — but I'm off again 
to-day." 

Oh, he'll race across the country at sixty miles an 

hour! 
Well, it's up to him to do it, for he's got the speed 
and power — 
And I'm a poor old-timer, and I've got to stay be- 
hind 
And rattle empties up and down as if I didn't 
mind. 

13 



I'm a rusty switching-engine, in a grimy, smoky 

yard: 
I do my work because I must — sometimes it's 
blooming hard. 
But, anyhow, I've got my pride; because, when 

he comes back, 
He'd not be such a dandy if I hadn't cleared the 
track. 



THE GAMBLERS 

Fools — when the golden moments come, 
And life is worth the living, 

Why do we hold our empty hands 
From what fate would be giving? 

The greatest gamblers of the world 
Staked glory, love, and power, 

And won the world — or if they lost, 
They gained one splendid hour. 



14 



THE DESERT 

Mid-day 

It is the mid hour of a glowing day. Off to the 

south 
The Tres Hermanas thrusts three sheer bald peaks 

to meet 
The burning sun. The sky blazes with vivid color 

overhead ; 
And straight across the endless, barren plain there 

comes 
A strong west wind that blows great whirling 

clouds of dust; 
And all the hurrying windmills clank and creak 

and groan. 
Out in the sandy village street the bare head child- 
ren play 
At Bronco Busting by the boistrous hour. One 

panting boy 
Down on all fours, with arching neck and lowered 

head, rears, bucks, 
And jumps; a stalwart little man clinging a-top 
With arms and thighs and heels. Wallowing in 

dust, 
Screaming with joy, they clinch and roll and gasp. 
Hark! Down the street a reckless rider comes, 
Shouting a warning to the startled boys, who make 
For nearest cover from the bronco's clattering heels, 
And from the sheltering fence send boyish jeers. 
The sunburned cowboy flings an answering laugh, 
Whirls through the dust and out across the plain. 



15 



THE DESERT 

Evening 

Slowly the evening comes. Across the darkening 

plain 
Far to the east, the Floridas, which bask all day 
Beneath the burning sun, rear rugged threatening 

peaks 
Against the waning light. A slow wind blows from 

out the gorge 
In fitful gusts, hinting of coming night and chilly 

hours ; 
And over all, high in the west hangs one big star. 
Against the opal sky a score of windmills swing 

their lazy arms: 
From out some window sunk in rough adobe walls 
A lamp gleams here and there: showing within 
A table spread for evening's tranquil meal. 
The tired children all indoors, no sound is heard 
Save when some cow moves toward her milking 

place, 
And stops for one sparce mouthful by the fence. 
Down down the long sandy street a lonesome cowboy 

comes, 
Jogs his lean horse, looks at the lights and hums an 

idle song. 



16 



THE DESERT 
Night 

Night in the desert. Nowhere else in all the world 

Night comes like this. What do I say — there is no 
world 

Save this. This pallid world of sand and sand and 
sand. 

My eyes, my human eyes, can see no end, 

Try as I may to pierce this ghastly vail. 

Away in some dim region to the south 

I know the brave rough mountains rear themselves, 

But even they are hid behind the vail. 

— My stark soul sickens at the dark that is not 
dark — 

The hard bright moon seems far, so far away — 

— The million, million stars that jeer at me — 

Great God — how big it is — and I 

But one more grain of sand beneath the immeasur- 
able sky — 

Night in the desert. All the bitterness 

Or all the world lies in those words. 



17 



A SONG 

I know a lad is fair an' tall, 
An' bonnie blue his 'ee, 

Wi' just a glint o' light in 'em, 
Like sunlight on the sea. 

An' when he is beside me 
I think him a' my own, 

An' half I trust his vowin', 
That he loves but me alone! 

But cruel doubts assail me 
When far apart are we, 

An' naught can then avail me 
To prove his constancy. 

For men and maids are fickle, 
An' vows are made to break; 

An' lovers love each other 
For pretty love's sweet sake. 

My lad is brave and tender, 
His like ye may not find ; 

But I know wi'out the tellin' 
That he's fickle as the wind. 

The old love is the best love, 
— Until it flies away — 

The new love is the true love, 
Forever — or a day ! 



x8 



THE UNQUIET HEART 

We of the tribe of the unquiet heart, 
We fight each day against the turns of chance; 
The overwhelming tide of trivial things 
That eat away the hours. The flying hours 
That should be full of all life has to give. 

We of the tribe of the unquiet heart — 
We can not soothe the soul with gentle tasks: 
We can not stitch away with tranquil hands 
The little sorrows of the passing day — 
We wear our souls out on the petty round. 

We, of the tribe of the unquiet heart, 

Who stay, because we must. Yet long for far off 

places ; 
For wind swept barren spaces: 
For crowded towns and sweating mobs of men 
Who toil by day and sleep through toil drugged 

nights. 

We of the tribe of the unquiet heart. 

We tread the stony path with tender feet, 

A song upon our lips because we will. 

— Yet — pity us not — ye who love the sweet small 

thines — 
Ye of the untroubled lives, ye of the quiet heart! 



19 



'TIS BETTER TO HAVE LOVED AND 
LOST" 

'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than not have loved at all," 
Tho' sad the sight of true love cross't, 

'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
Than on Life's sullen sea be toss't, 

Fettered and held in thrall. 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than not have loved at all. 



20 



TO THE MOCKING BIRD 

Cutting the silence at the sun's first ray, 

A rapier thrust of sound comes, keen and clear. 

— Oh soulless singer, thy glad roundelay 
Falls cold and empty on my listening ear. 

Poor pretty plagarist of all that's gay, 

That throbbing song is meaningless to thee : 

— And I — I like it not — it seems to say 
Ye swing and sing in mockery of me. 

Thou greet'st the coming of another day 
In shrill bravado that can know no fear; 

While my wild heart can never dare to say 
Its thrilling song for all the world to hear. 



21 



THE LOCUST BLOOM 

The locust bloom is heavy with the treasure of its 
sweetness, 

The wonder of the west wind is like some magic 
wine — 

The glory of the sunshine is made of gold and glad- 
ness — 

The world is full of joy today — and all of it seems 
mine! 



22 



ONE NIGHT 

One night, beneath a sky all velvet dark, 
A soft wind blowing fresh against my face, 

I went the road the day time knows full well, 
But, dimly lighted, seemed another place. 

My hand upon the engine's throbbing pulse, 
That seemed to beat in unison with mine, 

The things all wild and lovely that I love, 
Came sailing to me on the sweet night wind. 

And with me went a comrade like to me — 
— Seldom upon the road comes such a one — 

A spirit yet more daring and more free, 

Who knows the velvet night and loves the sun. 

I went the road the day time knows full well, 
A soft wind blowing fresh against my face; 
But ah, the night time hid the things I know, 
— I went into illimitable space! 



23 



A SERENADE 

Whisper it softly, oh ye sweet West winds, 
Whisper it softly in my sweetheart's ear, 

Have care no prying breeze the secret finds, 

Have care no stranger shall my love-words hear. 

Tell her the silver moonbeams love the earth; 

Tell her each flower adores a single star: 
Tell her each clear-voiced bird can choose its mate, 

And answer to her love-note from afar. 

But, Wind, when you are whispering in her ear 
This simple tale which never can grow old, 

Do not forget to say my love for her 

Is greater than the boundless earth can hold. 

Ah, gentle West wind up among the trees, 
Go beg my sweetheart for a token slight! 

Go steal a kiss from off her dewy lips, 

And blow it to me for my own goodnight. 



M 



JUNE SONG 

Ah, lovely June, thy sunny days are here, 
The world seems gayer for thy coming; 

The glad birds sing their shrill and tender songs, 
And all day long the bees are humming. 

All fairest things are of thyself a part: 

Ah, lovely June, so sweet thou art! 

And yet, so sad thou seemest, lovely June! 

Thy fragrant nights are cool and still, 
And yet — regret and nameless pain, 

Some brooding sense of unknown ill, 
Sighs in the air and clutches at the heart. 
Ah, June! ah, lovely June, so sad thou art! 

Ah, lovely June, thy ripening fields and woods, 

Thy butterflies and lazy bees, 
Thy sunny mornings and thy starry nights, 

The secret south wind in thy trees, 
Bring to me only vague regret — 
Ah, lovely June, could I forget! 



25 



A MADRIGAL FOR PEGGY 

Bits of the skies 
Are Peggy's eyes, 

Rose of the South 
Her little mouth: 
Surely the bird 
Her voice hath heard, 
Breaketh his heart because of its sweetness. 

Truly I think, 
Daintier pink 

Breath of the Spring 
Can never bring, 
Than finds a place, 
On her flower like face, 
Breaketh my heart because of its sweetness. 

The whole day long 
A shrill sweet song 

The bird doth sing; 
Maketh to ring 
The woods and the sky. 
But I — not I — 
Breaketh my heart because of her sweetness. 



26 



TO MY CAMPASPE 

After Sir John Lilly 

Of old, Dan Cupid and Campaspe played 
At cards for kisses, and Campaspe won. 
In latter days a youth that game essayed — 
The same which Cupid with Campaspe played — 
And like Dan Cupid was himself undone; 
Bow, arrows, heart — he lost them every one. 

Campaspe won his dimple, heart and eyes, 
Refused his kisses, jeered him for his pains. 

The modern maid was also coy, but wise. 

She with her dimple took his heart and eyes! 
But keep what's won at play she would disdain, 
She took the stakes, but gave them back again. 



27 



TO MY HEART'S LOVE 

{From the German) 

About my Heart's-Love's lovely eyes, 

I'll write a Canzonet; 
About my Heart's-Love's rosy mouth 

A dainty Triolet. 

About my Heart's Love's little cheek 

A Sonnet I'll impart; 
But, oh, the poems I would write, 

Had my Heart's-Love a heart. 



28 



DEFECTION 

Oh, pretty bread and butter miss, 

Whom I'd have slain my soul to please, 
I fondly thought our life would be 
One long, long dream of bread and cheese. 

But, ah, a woman came my way! 

She smiled on me — I could not fail 
To think that life with her would be 

A pleasant thing of cakes and ale. 

She spoke — her voice was molten gold, 
And I'd have died to make it mine, 

For well I knew that life with her 
Would be the walnuts and the wine. 

So, go your way in peace, my dear ; 

May cream and peaches be your lot. 
You never knew, so you'll forgive, 

And as for me — I have forgot. 



29 



NARCISSUS 

The happy poet Pagans sung and said — 

Once lived a boy whose gracious beauty made 
This dark world radiant for a little space; 
And all who looked upon his perfect face, 
They needs must love him for its loveliness. 

Thus many a nymph, whose passionate warm heart, 
Knowing not how to curb its tenderness — 
Broke with the weight of unrequited love, 
Sighed out a prayer for pity to great Jove, 
That his cold youth be pierced by Eros' dart. 

Vain hope — for as it chanced upon a time, 
Deep in a forest pool as crystal clear, 
Himself he saw, and held no other dear 
Thereafter. Stern Justice wavering, 

Meted a tender judgment for his crime. 

— Earth could ill spare so beautiful a thing — 
A delicate, pure flower, he for all time 
Will star the woodland in the early Spring. 



io 



A-MAYING 

Oh, what is so rare as a day in May, 

When the great sun shines like this! 
When the soft winds woo, all tender and true, 

And breathe on one's cheek like a kiss! 
When the sky is so blue — ah — heaven's own blue! 

And the birds in the greening trees 
Are bursting their throats with rapturous notes, 
As I lie on the ground and — 
Cchew — 

Ker— Ker ! 

Chou ! 



3i 



THE EPICUREAN 

Death loveth not the woful heart, 
Or the soul that's tired of living. 
Nay, it's up and away 
With the heart that's gay 
And the life that's worth the giving. 

Seldom he stops where his welcome's sure, 
Where age and want are sighing. 

Nay, it's up and away, 

For he scorns to stay 
With the wretch who would be dying. 

Ah, it's youth and love and a cloudless sky 
The Epicurean's after. 
Nay, it's up and away 
When the world's in May 
And life is full of laughter. 



32 



THE RAINDROP PRELUDE 

(Chopin) 

Oh song from out the master mind 
That sung to ease its pain 

Of some insatiate, unknown wound, 
Stung by the failing rain. 

The wild sweet notes of happiness, 

That pay a bitter toll, 
In deep rebellion's crashing chords, 

Straight from an aching soul. 

Then, struggling fiercely to be free, 

Soar on one lofty strain, 
Beneath, the dull insistant note 

That hammers on the brain. 



33 



APRIL'S FAIR FALSE SMILE 

Ah, wooed by April's fair, false smile 

And won by April's tear, 
The fond and foolish trees and I 

Believe her every year. 

But yesterday, so brave and gay, 

In garb ot gallant hue, 
We welcomed her with honest hearts 

And half believed her true. 

By soft winds kissed, who could resist 
The promise of her sky — 

To-day so pale and wan we are, 
Those trusting trees and I ! 



FROM HEINE 

The rose, the lily, the sun, the dove, 
These loved I once in bliss of love. 
I love them no longer, I love alone 
The pure, the fair, the only, the one. 
For she herself, the queen of love 
Is rose and lily and sun and dove. 



34 



THE LOTOS BLOOM 

{From the German) 

The Lotos Bloom is withered 

By the Sun's too-vivid light, 
And waits with downward-drooping head 

The coming of the night. 

The pale Moon is her lover; 

He wakes her with his beams, 
Her pure face she unveileth, 

And riseth from her dreams. 

She blooms and glows and lightens, 
And fragrant tear-drops flow; 

She silently weeps and trembles 
With love and love's dear woe. 



35 



PEGGY'S HAIR 

Of all sights the fairest, 
And surely the rarest, 

Is the shine of her yellow hair; 
In the lamplight gleaming, 
Each gold curl seeming 
A thing beyond compare. 

Oh, were it the fashion 
For love to be passion, 

And knights still to joust for their fair, 
There'd be tender fancies 
And couching of lances, 

At the shine of her yellow hair. 

Although 'tis no longer 
Alway to the stronger 

To yield up the weak to despair, 
There'll surely be plenty, 
Before she is twenty, 

Will sigh for her yellow hair. 



36 



THY DARK EYES 

(From the German) 

Stay with me, oh eyes so tender, 
Dark and dreamy, mystic bright; 

Wrap me round in all thy power, 
Like the sweet, mysterious night. 

Take, with thy soft magic darkness, 
All the world away from me; 

Let my life be thine forever, 
Thine through all eternity. 



TRIOLET 

Love is like an April day, 

Half of sunshine, half of shower; 
Right the poets, they who say 
Love is like an April day — ■ 
Silver lined, deny who may, 

Are the clouds that darkly lower — 
Love is like an April day, 

Half of sunshine, half of shower. 



37 



LOVE'S SUICIDE 

Sweet Love lies dead, 

So stark and cold; 
His golden head 

Rests on the mould. 
Blood red roses 

Flung at his feet, 
Ah Love, fair Love, 

Thou wert so sweet! 

So cold and stark 

Sweet Love lies slain; 
Over his heart 

One crimson stain, 
The fair dead past 

Can ne'er awake, 
Love slew himself 

For his own dear sake. 



38 



AN ERRAND OF MERCY 
A Monologue 

"Ah! you are nothing the worse for wear 

For the ball last night, I see. 
Mam'selle is looking uncommonly fair: 

Whither away? what's that — let me. 
On an errand of mercy — your last night's flowers? 

Dear little saint that you are! 
Poor little chap — he's sick, you say? 

Here comes the cross-town car. 
Walk? I'm your man — no, indeed, 

I've nothing 'better to do.' 
What could I do that was better, please, 

Than carry the flowers for you? 
And the ball — and the Browns — 'twas fine. 

What a floor! It's positively true 
One wouldn't guess if one didn't know, 

That the house and the Browns are new. 
Girls are stunning, father's fair, 

Mother decidedly plain; 
But they floated themselves right into the swim 

On that tidal wave of champagne. 
You are awfully fetching, do you know, 

With that basket on your arm: 
And you've matched your air to your errand, too; 

Little angel — why, what's the harm? 
Nobody heard — Mabel looked well, 

That's an awfully swagger gown. 
She always looks nice in white, I think. 

Stopped there on my way down town: 
She's rather used up: got a beastly cold: 

Danced too much, I suppose, 



39 



And probably got in her work on Tom 

In the greenhouse, under the rose. 
What's that? I don't understand: 

Got her cold in another way? 
Yes, the house is new — just done, 

And the 'walls are damp,' you say? 
Ah, your place? so sorry! 

You'll be at the Jones' tea? 
Sure — -good-by — in your orisons 

Sweet saint, remember me." 



40 



A SONG 

What's love, you say? 
Oh, 'tis a pretty thing, a charming toy; 
A winter's pastime, and a summer's joy. 

That's love, we'll say. 

What's love, you say? 
Ah ! Tis a cruel thing, a bitter pain, 
Blots out the sun, and breaks a heart in twain. 

That's love, we'll say. 

What's love, you say? 
A thing to play with, and a thing of fears, 
An hour-time's laughter, and a life-time's tears. 

That's love, we'll say. 

What's love, you say? 
Ah, love is everything — and smile or sigh, 
Stay with me love, forever, or I die. 

That's love, we'll say. 



41 



RONDEAU 

"The hour seems ours," he softly said — 
"Come, pretty one, be not afraid; 
Ah ! that I might with thee abide 
In some far desert isle, my bride, 
Nor ever tire, thou gentle maid." 

"The bustling world's vain pomp and pride 
Is too much with us, love," he said, 

" 'Tis only when the day has died 
The hour seems ours." 

Time's flying feet had scarcely sped 
Three months. I passed those lovers, wed. 

I passed them, sitting side by side. 

"Oh for some desert isle!" she cried. 
Again that lover softly said: 

"The hour seems hours!" 



42 



A SONG OF THE MOOR 

The glowing moor is wide, is wide, 

And the blue sea stretches away, 
The blue blue sky is over it all, 

And the day seems a perfect day. 

But something comes 'twixt mine eyes and the sky, 

A something dark and dread, 
Comes 'twixt me and the moor and the sea, 

And the perfect day seems dead. 

The riotous song of life and love 

Jangles with one false note, 
And the bitter sweet 01 a lost delight 

Lays a clutching hand on my throat. 

But the strong west wind blows into my heart 

And sweeps sad thoughts away — 
The moor is wide and the sea is blue 

And the day is a perfect day! 



43 



BLISS 

At early morn when all the grass 

Is wet with sparkling dew; 
When all the flowers are fresh and fair, 

And all the sky is blue : 
When every little fickle wind 

Is whispering in the trees, 
When every single little leaf 

Is quivering in the breeze, 
When all the world is waking up 

To greet the coming day, 
I love to think of all the world 

Upon its working way. 
For early birds and honest toil 

My admiration's deep — 
— I love to pull the covers up, 

And gently fall asleep. 



44 



MY LADY'S MINIATURE 

Set in a pearl-encrusted frame, 
The portrait of a stately dame 

Hangs on the wall above me. 
The almond eyes, the Cupid's bow; 
— The proper thing in lips you know — 

(Ah, did thy painter love thee?) 

The simple gown of some quaint stuff 
Slips off the shoulders just enough; 

The hair's demurely parted. 
— But soft! Behind the dainty ear 
Methinks I see — why, yes — it's clear — 

An embryo ringlet's started. 

(Ah, sure thy painter was a man!) 
The taper ringers hold a fan 

As tho' 'twere done for duty. 
In fact, my Lady's languished air 
Is handled very deftly there : 

— No doubt some famous beauty 

Who lived quite fifty years ago. 
The "atmosphere" would tell one so. 

— These old things are delicious. 
Old miniatures, of course, I mean. 
This lovely maid is now, I ween, 

A grandmamma — oh, fate capricious! 

But stay — what's this — what's this — I see? 
A date — a modern date — dear me. 

And — my — stupendous — folly ! 
This languid dame whose lovely face 
Simpers with such an old-time grace 

Is after all My Polly! 

45 



LOVE BLOWS AS THE WIND BLOWS 

"Love blows as the wind blows, 
Love blows into the heart" 

Arabian Proverb. 

The fickle wind blows west and east, 

(Love blows as the wind blows.) 
The fickle moon is love's high priest, 

(Love blows into the heart.) 

Sweet love, sweet love is lightly won, 

(Love blows as the wind blows.) 
Sweet love, sweet love is quickly gone — 

(Love blows into the heart.) 

April's made of shine and shower, 

(Love blows as the wind blows.) 
The north wind frights each timid flower — 

(Love blows into the heart.) 

June roses with their hearts on fire, 

(Love blows as the wind blows.) 
Flame and fade in their own desire — 

(Love blows into the heart.) 

Ah, perfect love — for thee a sigh — 

(Love blows as the wind blows.) 
Thou wert so sweet and fair to die, 

(Love blows into the heart.) 

Bind with the rue thy radiant brow — 

(Love blows as the wind blows.) 

Beloved of the Gods wert thou! 

(Love blows into the heart.) 

4 6 



YOUR HAND IN MINE 

This bubble world, all rainbow-hued, 

Without a care or sorrow, 
Reflects the sea and sky to-day, 

— Perhaps 'twill burst tomorrow. 

Well, come what may, 'tis mine to-day! 

Come joy — come pain — come trouble — 
Your hand 's in mine — I'd catch my breath 

And blow another bubble! 

And should an impish little wind, 

— A little wind illusive — 
Attempt to trifle with my world, 

And make the thing conclusive: 

Ah, sweetheart mine, youT hand 's in mine- 
All other things forsaking — 

So — rainbow hues are treasure trove, 
And bubbles need but making! 



47 



FOR YOU ARE NOT HERE 

The nights are silver, 

And the days are gold: 
The moor is wind-swept, 

And its charms unfold 
And greet me hourly — 

— Hourly grow more dear — 
One thing it lacketh, 

For you are not here. 

Love is a bubble 

Blown in to the dawn, 
That floats elusive — 

In a moment gone. 
Life is the play thing of each passing year- 
My hands are empty, 

For you are not here. 

The sun is brazen, 

And the moon is cold; 
The moor is silent — 

All its tale is told. 
The wind is dreary, 

— Hourly grows more drear — 
My world is empty, 

For you are not here. 



48 



MID-SUMMER 

All through the long hot lazy summer day 
The whole wide earth lies drowzing in the sun: 
The level fields of ripened yellow wheat 
Are motionless, drugged by the golden heat: 
The listless bumble bees all aimless stray, 
Content to buzz, and leave their tasks undone. 

Under the chestnut trees the cool shades lie, 
Making a dim spot fit for men and gods. 
Like Lotus-eaters, idling the hours away, 
All through the long hot lazy summer day, 
Content to drift and let the world go by 
We drift. The world goes by — and whats the odds ! 



49 



THE WIZARD WIND 

Oh racing wind, thou wizard of the west, 
From half across the world ye come to me: 

Ye bear upon your wings the wine of life — 
The golden wine — and I'll drink deep of thee! 

What boots it that perhaps a mighty storm 
Is close behind — thrice welcome it, I say — 

The clouds may pile themselves up to the sky — 
Oh wind, wild wind, blow through my heart 
to-day ! 

The white topped waves beat on the yellow sands, 
The sea gulls scream above a tumbling sea: 

Oh racing wind, thou Merlin of the west, 
Today I am in love with life and thee! 



50 



WHEN PHILLADA WAS FLOUTED 

Ah love doth wax and love doth wane, 
And love hath many sorrows: 

Tomorrow brings surcease of pain, 
And there be many morrows! 

Alack-a-day — that I, who know 

A dozen maxims wise, dear, 
'Cause Colin pleased me, should forego 

The wisdom that I prize, dear! 

To flout the world for his dear sake, 
— He takes it as his due, dear — 
And if ye flout the world too long, 
The world it will flout you, dear. 

Sweet ladies far and ladies near, 
Take heed from my undoing; 

And never let your lover win, 
But keep him ever wooing. 

However well the youth may sue, 
However well he please, dear, 

Give him a smile for every sigh, 
And keep him on his knees, dear. 

Ah, there be many a gallant gay, 
Who needs him but my smiling: 

Colin shall know I have not lost 
The art of sweet beguiling! 

For love doth wax, and love doth wane, 
And love hath many sorrows — 

Tomorrow brings surcease of pain, 
And there be many morrows! 



51 



FROM HEINE 

He is a god who first time loves, 

Tho' he may love in vain: 
But by the gods he is a fool 
Who hapless loves again. 

And such a fool am I — once more 

Of hopeless love I sigh. 
Sun, moon, and stars, they laugh at me 

And I laugh too — and die! 



52 



HAVE A CARE, MY LADY 

Have a care, my lady, 
Or at some other shrine thy lover will be sighing. 
Laugh and cry, smile and sigh: 
Pout 
And flout — 
Use thy prettiest art 
If thou'd keep his heart: 
Or for a newer love thy lover will be dying. 

Have a care, my lady! 
His fancy's wing already is pluming for a flight — 
Frown and flush, pale and blush: 
Dance 
And glance. 
Use thy dainty skill to charm him : 
See to it that thou disarm him, 
Or some rival beauty will slay him in her might. 

Have a care, my lady — ! 
Bind him but with roses, and let his chains not gall 
him! 

Make haste, nor waste 
Time 
And prime: 
Have a hundred faces 
And a thousand graces, 
And never be the same if thou forever wouldst en- 
thrall him! 



53 



RONDEAU 

As light as air the merry jest 

Where all's in pantomime expressed — 
The crackling whip Ar'chino vaults to, 
Old Pantaloon all trembling halts to — 

Gay Harlequin, with knavish zest, 

His love for Columbine confessed. 

The lively tune that maidens waltz to, 
The pretty vows that lads are false to, 
The mellow laugh, the idle jest, 
Are light as air. 

While Motes dance on with half mad zest, 

Low down, with passion half suppressed, 

Sings some poor wretch that life's been false to, 
The old refrain, that music halts to. 

"Comme la vie est amere" — confessed, 

"La Vie" 's a trifling thing at best — 
As light as air. 



54 



5.30 A. M. 

Oh that proverbial early bird, 

— The one that caught the worm — 

I would that I had never heard 

Of that proverbial early bird. 

A pious fraud, a snare absurd, 
I boldly do affirm, 

Was that proverbial early bird, 
— The one that caught the worm. 



Envoi 

And Prince, the Worm. 

He also rose betimes. 
And yet methinks his was a cruel fate. 
Would it not seem the moral of the tale 
Were this — 'twere best to lie full late? 



55 



TRIOLET 

Ah, truth to tell 

'Tis sweet to lie 
Within some fair and shady dell. 
Ah, truth to tell, 
'Tis sweet to yield to love's sweet spell- 

I'll give him sigh for sigh. 
For truth to tell, 

'Tis sweet to lie! 



56 



DEC 30 !9t0 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



30 1910 



